


When Do We Get Our Happily Ever After?

by Shiggy_Chan



Series: My Own Flesh and Bone [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Cutting (mentioned), Depression (Heavily Implied), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24977335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggy_Chan/pseuds/Shiggy_Chan
Summary: I was in the major feels and this suddenly appeared. Don’t know where it came from. But there is cutting and blood in this. And it’s not really happy. This isn’t resolved either. You’ll know what I mean if you read. But there’s definitely suicide involves so if that makes you uncomfortable please don’t read this.
Series: My Own Flesh and Bone [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592857





	When Do We Get Our Happily Ever After?

**Author's Note:**

> I had two specific characters in mind when writing this, but it’s also completely open about who. Names are never said. And I might or might not use this for a different fic. If I end up not, then I’ll add end notes saying who. If you think you know the scene then tell me! Sorta doubt it though. It’s extremely ambiguous. There’s like,,,, one clue. One not very specific clue.

My shoes tapped a familiar pattern on the stairs. It was the only sound, yet the weighted blanket of a galaxy encompassing muffled it. The white steps were a canvas, that which was painted by the tears of an unseen wound.

Everyone says that the walls have ears, but I disagree. The walls are deafened to the laughter, the sobs, the bustling and rustling of life. But they _see._ They see the happiness, the mirth of delighted children. They see the damage done by others and ourselves. They see the fragile soul that crashes and wanes like the sea. 

They see what I see. They see a boy and a girl. A boy and a girl who had each been dealt an unfair hand by Lady Life. A boy and a girl who need but don’t want. A boy and a girl who can only be saved by the other. They see a boy and a girl. 

There is no door in the doorway. It’s just open. You can see the sky and it’s freckles. You can see it’s Third Eye looking down upon its farm. The sky’s the limit. And we are sheep. Sheep to be herded for safety — but from who? Sheep to be shaved for health — and to provide for unknown customers. Sheep to be bred for our species — and by the farmers need. Sheep to be killed when we’ve served our purpose. 

He heard me coming. His eyes followed my feet until they stopped. Then he followed _my_ eyes. I looked around us. There was no paintings, no other kids, and the telescopes had been put away. A tilted my head a little to the left, then to the right. Three more steps forward put me in front of the short wall he stood atop. I could feel him reading me. 

The lake shimmered far below us. It wasn’t _quite_ flush against the tower. There was enough room for us to be found. Found later when the sun had risen and some first years get adventurous. There we could be, broken outside and in. Bleeding most likely. Maybe it would trail into the lake. I wonder if it would even be discernible. 

I finally meet his gaze, he knows what he wanted. I won’t be leaving. My attention drifts down to what encouraged this late-night trip. His wrist is dripping and his robes are soaked. 

Drip.....

Drip....

Drip. 

The blood pools at our feet, swirling in patterns and visions that are different to all who see. His eyes are no longer searching. His eyes are no longer searching they are begging. His eyes are begging for me to help him. Help him however I can. He offers me his hand. The blood runs even between his fingers and stains them pink. 

His hand trembles. His hand trembles but not from the cuts or the blood loss. His hand trembles because he’s scared. His hand trembles because he needs. His hand trembles because he needs but he does not want. His hand trembles because my hand trembles. My hand trembles because I need but I do not want. 

I blink. Once. Only once. Then I offer him mine. I offer him my hand, and I offer him my eyes to tell him that I _know._ To know that I hear him because I have made the same screams. I have spilt the same blood. I have shown the same eyes to those who don’t know the screams or the blood. To those who _can’t_ hear. Can’t hear because they are lucky. Can’t hear because they don’t have to. 

He takes it. 

Falls into it. 

Collapses with me. 

Cries with me. 

He says he knows.

I know I know I know.

But he doesn’t say he will.  
  
  
I will I will I will.

He doesn’t say he can.

I can I can I can.

He only says he knows and that’s good enough. That’s all I need to _know_ too.

  
I can’t. I won’t. I know. 

All that falls off the tower that night is a tin. A tin splattered with red, rusting at the edges. A tin filled with tiny, sharp razors. A tin filled with _bad_. The bad falls, but it is more resilient than the _good_. It will be back but for now we can sleep. We can sleep and ignore The Itch. We can laugh and ignore The Itch. We can enjoy the _good_ enough to hopefully say that we _can_ and we _will_. 


End file.
